


Reichenbachfälle

by NatalieRyan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, TLD filler, lestrade is a Good Bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22041883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NatalieRyan/pseuds/NatalieRyan
Summary: What happens when Sherlock decides he needs time to think things through and leaves a letter for John? Will John follow after him or will he stay back, and resign himself to the fact that Sherlock left (again)?Waterfalls and love confessions.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 59





	Reichenbachfälle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dixons_mama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dixons_mama/gifts).



> I’m back with the last fic for 2019.  
> After a month of a dry writing spell I managed to write this one and hit a new milestone. First 10k words one-shot.  
> When back in November dixons_mama sent me a Johnlock fic, I never thought that I’d write this. But said fic led to feels, the feels led to that thing inside me that was asleep for a few years and then she said the episodes were on Netflix, so what was I supposed to do? They were whispering to me.  
> Nothing happened for a while as I wolfed down episode after episode. Then I came back to series 4 and well, I’ve had some issues (with previous seasons too not just s4, but, oh well) and this little worm started forming in my mind and I couldn’t help but write it down. At first it was bits and pieces of my thoughts on the matter of what happened in 4x02 and then it turned into a letter Sherlock left for John and I was on a roll.  
> Then the dry spell happened and even though I wrote parts of this fic (that were altered in the editing process), I didn’t have anything concrete. Then, couple of days ago, I just started writing and here we are, 10k+ words later. I did my best to write them as close to the John and Sherlock we know. Hope I did a good job.  
> The evens happen mostly at Reichenbach Falls. This is a TLD filler (after the hug). The things with Eurus never happen so you could treat it as an AU.  
> Beta by dixons_mama. Thank you so much, once again for putting up with my ridiculous ideas late at night/early in the morning. Time zones are a bitch.  
> I hope all of you enjoy this story.

Sherlock placed his suitcase in front of the door. He thought of just leaving without words but after last time he decided against it.

Mrs. Hudson cried and hugged him, apologised for things Sherlock couldn't fathom, and kissed him on the cheek.

Sherlock, not very keen on vows after all that happened with Mary, didn't want Mrs. Hudson to think he'd be back soon. But she understood what Sherlock didn't say, and that was simply: Sherlock needed time.

How much, not even Sherlock himself knew.

Sherlock opted out of taking the violin with him, thinking that he didn't have the heart to play after Mary died, and his friendship with John was irrevocably altered.

(And the hope for something more, before or after, something Sherlock decided not to dwell on. Emotions were for normal people, not for him. But he couldn't deny his heart's desire. He'd endure anything if it meant John was alive and well. Currently he was getting ready to leave.)

For now his suits and scarves would have to make do (and his beloved Belstaff). Should he need something else, he could easily find it where he was going.

After saying goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, he wrote a text to Greg (finally remembering his name) and Molly, with strict instructions to not tell John anything.

Mycroft was last, and it came as no surprise to Sherlock that his brother already knew where Sherlock was headed to. Mycroft also said he'd plead plausible deniability should John contact him to ask for Sherlock's whereabouts.

All of that done, Sherlock took one last look of the flat. Sherlock's leather chair, John's chair with the Union Jack pillow, looking worn and comfortable. The books and papers littering every surface of the flat, the organized disarray their flat had been.

The kitchen table was devoid of his microscope and whatever it was that he was analyzing in any given moment. For once he left the fridge filled with the things they actually needed, like food and beverages (assured John would appreciate the effort of keeping his experiments to a minimum these days. In fact, whatever was left from Sherlock's common sense told him to do that the moment Rosie joined their lives. She was this ridiculously tiny human that had Sherlock wrapped around her little finger. There was little Sherlock wouldn't do for her. And if that meant keeping his experiments to a lesser percent, then so be it).

The wall behind the sofa was stripped from the usual pictures and notes Sherlock used to pin on it during investigations. The violin rested in a case next to the fireplace.

Everything looked common enough to satisfy Sherlock. He picked up his suitcase and left 221B Baker Street.

It was a cold December morning, and Sherlock stopped for a second to tighten the collar of his coat, and to fix his scarf before he continued his walk. His destination was St. Pancras International train station that was at a distance of 15 minutes by car, but Sherlock preferred to walk. He wanted to breathe in London one last time before he boarded the train that would take him to Switzerland.

The train to Bern arrived exactly 12 hours and 24 minutes later (just as Sherlock predicted it would happen). Because it was night and Sherlock admitted even to himself he was exhausted, he decided to spend the night in a hotel. While Sherlock was at the admitting stage, he realized his Transport would rebel soon if he didn't take good care of it. For as much as Sherlock liked to think he was invincible, he wasn't (as proven with his latest stint in which he allowed his Transport to be John's punching bag. The results had not been favourable).

The next morning found Sherlock using his much better German to rent a car, then he drove to Meiringen via A6 and A8. The drive took him exactly 1 hour and some minutes to spare. From Meiringen it took Sherlock 20 minutes to get to his destination. Reichenbachtal.

Sherlock parked the car in front of the beautiful house he bought all those years ago, while they worked on the case with the stolen painting. The picture painted on the canvas attracted Sherlock, trapped him in a world where he didn't want to think of anything else. He was pulled like a moth to a flame.

Entering his home away from home, Sherlock looked out of the window.

There, behind the veils of glass and in the distance were the Reichenbach Falls.

…

John finished his shift at the hospital and after a gruelling morning he was feeling worse than the day before. After listening to Mary's advice, (the Mary in his head), he talked to Sherlock. He stayed. Sherlock let him cry, while being embraced in those long arms, ensconced in the safety of such fragile, yet strong limbs.

John actually looked forward to meeting Sherlock at Baker Street, but the moment John stepped foot inside the flat, he could feel something was wrong. What, John couldn't tell, yet.

"Sherlock? Mate, you here?"

There was no response.

After searching the flat, John ended up sitting on his chair, wondering.

And there, on the table on his right, in plain sight, was an envelope.

…

_"John,_

_There is no other way to tell you this, but by the time you will be reading this letter, I'll be well on my way to a place I need to retreat for the time being. I'm truly sorry I have to go, once again, but I want you to know, it is by all means not your fault._

_There's something I need to do before I can come back, and that is to reflect. I know this is the most inopportune time for me to do so, but I realised several things after you had gone back to your place, and for one, it's too soon for me to be able to go back to normal. Well, my normal._

_I hope you won't hate me._

_I never got to tell you... how sorry I was, am still sorry for what happened with Mary. I am truly sorry she died protecting me. Gave up her life to save mine. It is not something I understand. I am not sure if my life is worth saving at this point, John. In the last 4 years, all I've done was to bring pain and sorrow to your life. Something I had never intended to do. I'd never, not for one second, hurt you on purpose. You are far too important to me John Watson. I'm not that stupid._

_I wish I could have kept my mouth shut, to not have said the wrong thing, to not deduce and poke the bear, over and over. I couldn't help myself. I keep thinking of Moriarty's trial, and what you said. I think that maybe if I wasn't myself, if I didn't profile Vivian Norbury, that none of this would have happened. That she'd still be alive and none of this…"_

"Oh Sherlock…"

John forced himself to look away from the letter. It wasn't a hard thing to deduce it. Sherlock was gone.

And right when John thought things were going to be okay. When he thought he'd finally repaired the bridges and gaps between them. Right when he thought his friendship with Sherlock, or what was left of it, could be mended, Sherlock left.

John was angry. He was bloody pissed. He wanted to scream. To punch someone. Preferably Sherlock.

 _No, enough of that for a lifetime_ , John thought. He wasn't going to cause Sherlock more pain.

John exhaled audibly and picked up the letter again.

" _There are things I wanted to say, and I omitted from telling you. Perhaps I should start with the moment when we solved the case with the painting from Reichenbach Falls. The fame, reputation, everything that came with it. It was likely what drew Moriarty to appear again._

_It all went downhill from there._

_I know these words should have been said years ago. Perhaps I made a mistake. Lots of those since Moriarty, don't you think?_

_Well, as you put it constantly, that means I am human, or something close to one. But that mistake cost me my best friend, and the chances to- well no need to talk about it now, right?_ "

John could read Sherlock's smirk from the words on the paper he held in his hands as he wiped a stray tear.

"You cock."

John took a deep breath and continued reading.

" _It happened exactly as on the day you asked me to be your best man. I said it all in my head, thinking I said it out loud and expected... I don't know what I expected. Maybe for you to react to it, to not forgive me so easily. I did nothing to deserve that forgiveness so soon, and I admit that maybe I played my cards right. But, the truth was, still is, that I didn't want you to go away, to alienate yourself from me. I had no right to ask that, to want that, but I was selfish. And then you got married._

_I found it pointless to try to engage you in any activities anymore, but I found I missed you more than when I was away. You were there, we were in the same city, but we weren't like before._

_I was a fool to believe that it'd be as it was in the old times. An idiot, I believe is more appropriate term._

_I have been going to therapy lately. I realised I needed that for a good while. It's still touch and go, but I'm learning to not look down on myself, and I actually came up with a brilliant plan to get your attention. Save you as Mary put it._

_I think you have a proud smile on your face right about now. Am I right?_ "

"You bloody moron! Of course I am proud of you. Even when you're not here you know me so well, to know what I'm going to do. I am really that predictable."

John turned a new page with Sherlock's handwriting. As it turned out, his best friend had a penchant for writing, judging by all the pages he filled with his words so far.

" _It was all for you. I did it to protect you. Well, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, too, but you... you were, scratch that, are the most important person in my life. I couldn't let Moriarty get you killed. So, I sacrificed myself, or made it look like I did, for you three to live. I did it not realising that I actually sacrificed you instead. By killing myself, I killed you._

_I know it may not mean anything to you now, so long after I- went to hunt down all of Moriarty's network. Cut the nips before they blossomed. The last fraction was in Serbia. It was an easy entry. Too easy. I fell into a trap._

_I was, what you'd say, tortured. At first it was for information. Then it became a game for them. They got off on it. Betting on who could make me hurt more. They deliberately allowed me to escape, just to watch me fall into a trap again. That night I was certain that I was going to die._

_But then Mycroft appeared, and he got me out. I must admit that I was surprised, but not so much as when I learned the real reason for saving me. My brother does seem to care about me. He just has a weird way of showing it. I think he had ulterior motives to bring me back when he did. I don't doubt he figured out who was the terrorist before we even touched London ground._

_Anyway, I'm digressing. My point is, I wasn't thinking. At all. About what you have been through with my supposed death. It cost me dearly. Something without a refund._ "

John was full on crying now, nothing stopping the well of tears flooding out of him. Repressed feelings, memories of times passed, times that were trying.

"Jesus, Sherlock…"

" _There were scars... still are in fact. Permanent. But as I've come to realise, the sentiment is that there are more. That are not visible, I mean._

_I didn't tell you about everything before, what happened with Moriarty, my suicide, Serbia… in a weird sense, I knew that you'd blame yourself for it. You shouldn't, by the way, but I know you John Watson, and I know you are frowning now, your brow is pinched and you want to tear me a new one for it. I could endure you being mean or rude to me, if it means you won't feel guilty._

_The thing is, you couldn't have changed anything._ "

John got up and poured himself a drink. He could feel a change in the words, something shifting and John had an inkling that he'd need that drink for the rest.

" _I mean that. I decided on my own, risked my life, tried to right any wrongs. It was because of me, Moriarty did what he did. My need to prove myself, or maybe to you, to impress you. The game was not fun anymore, though. Moriarty became the bane of my existence. For which you paid the price._

_During the time that I was away, while I was dead, the only constant, the only reason that got me through, it was you, John Watson. I meant what I said at the wedding. You keep me right._

_I know it's unconventional to do this via a letter. Long overdue, even._

_I'm in love with you, John Watson._

_I wish I said all of this before, but somehow felt it (deduced it, mind you) that you wouldn't have wanted to listen to me. I messed up, and I apologise. I hope that all I have said will make sense to you, and that you'll find your own peace. I never meant to hurt you, John Watson, and I'm terribly sorry you had to go through all of this alone, instead of with me by your side._

_We weren't meant to be. I understand that now. That doesn't make it any easier that I have to leave, though. Especially you of all people. But that's what I do best, right? I leave. I hurt you, and that was never my intention. I know you don't believe my reasons, even when they are the truth._

_I do love you John Watson, and I wish I could have had time to say this. Now, I've run out of time._

_I wish this time things could have been different, but it is what it is. I lie in the bed that I've made for myself._

_It was silly of me to assume that you'd wait, that you'd understand, and that you'd forgive me so easily. Perhaps it was an imaginary John I had talked with in my head on my hardest days._

_You then found Mary and suddenly I didn't matter. At least it felt like I wasn't important to you anymore. But I didn't stop loving you._

_Strange feeling. Love._

_Well, nothing we-, I, can do about it now._

_This is not a goodbye John. One day I'll see you again._

_Till then my love._

_Sherlock_ "

…

*a week later*

Christmas was approaching fast, and the only indication of it at the flat on Baker Street were the ornaments that Mrs. Hudson hung to entertain Rosie. John couldn't care less for Christmas. His wife was dead, his best friend was gone, _left_ , and on top of it all, he confessed he was in love with John. _In a bloody letter no less_.

John barely got out of bed these days. It was a chore to wake up and do everyday tasks without any real meaning behind them. He knew he was probably neglecting his daughter as it was, but he didn't have the strength to care for anything.

And John had thought he was depressed after Mary died.

It was rare for John to do anything more than eat and sleep over the past week. It was no surprise to Mrs. Hudson when it was past 11 am and she didn't see John emerge from his room. She fed Rosie and changed her. They moved to the corner of the room, close to the fireplace for warmth, but not close enough for Rosie to wander and burn herself.

Rosie was starting to walk and made it a daunting task for everyone around her to try and keep up with her.

Currently she had her eyes set on Sherlock's violin, trying to grab it.

John found them like that and that was all it took for him to break down.

Mrs. Hudson was torn between him and Rosie but eventually she picked up Rosie while calling Molly. Once Molly came to pick up Rosie, Mrs. Hudson went back upstairs. Without question she made tea and poured John a cuppa.

By now John had calmed down and looked collected enough to have a conversation.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson. It's been a few hard days."

"Try years, John."

Mrs. Hudson, the landlady and certainly not their housekeeper just described John's life.

"I just don't understand. Why… why would he think of leaving? We could have, I don't know, done something."

"He said he needed time, John. I think it's only fair to let him have that time."

"But, how long? He can't just drop a bomb on me like he did and then expect me to what? Wait for him?"

"I don't want to get involved in your business, and I am not the one you should ask, John."

"What if he never comes back? What am I going to do then?"

"Move on. Live your life. Lord knows you did that when we thought Sherlock was dead. It exploded right in your face in the end, but that's beside the point. And you have Rosie."

Sweet Rosie.

"She needs you, too, John. Take all the time you need to collect yourself, to resolve whatever it is you war with in yourself. But, come back to your daughter. You are the only living parent she has. Don't blow it."

With that Mrs. Hudson went back to her flat.

...

John showered and shaved after she left. He felt marginally better once he performed the tasks. He even felt bold enough to put on some hair product that Sherlock used.

Then he called Mycroft.

As predicted, Mycroft told John he didn't know Sherlock's whereabouts. Which John knew was a lie. Or maybe it wasn't. Perhaps Sherlock found the one place on Earth Mycroft couldn't follow.

John had to acknowledge that Sherlock had not been okay for a long time. The John from before would have noticed it. The John from now deliberately let it happen, chalking it up to Sherlock being Sherlock.

John couldn't hold on to his anger anymore. It dissipated in one big wave, because John finally realised that Sherlock wasn't acting out. It was merely a tactic to shield himself from further pain and sadness.

When everyone thought Sherlock was dead, Molly came to John one day to offer him a hug and few words. Back then he made nothing out of it, but now John knew that what Molly said about Sherlock was true. He hid his sadness well from John and he allowed everyone to trample on him, use him as verbal punching bag.

Sherlock could act very well that he wasn't affected, but John always knew when it was the opposite. When did John stop noticing?

John reasoned with himself, and even convinced his guilty mind that he did his best, but it was Sherlock's decision ultimately. Yet, it was always sitting in the back of his mind, how he could have been better, done better.

How many times had Sherlock wondered about that very same thing?

Sherlock probably did try to find a reason within the things he knew, with what he deduced, but must have realised one day that no one 'saw' him.

Sherlock had always been labeled as a freak, so why should things change now? For him to be viewed as someone that was different from the mold and the frame everyone put Sherlock in. One of Sherlock's problems with the world, was that he refused to bend to other people's will, to fit into the picture they have created for him.

It was one of the million little reasons of why John loved Sherlock. There was no escape from his feelings. The reality was that John Watson was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

And judging by the letter, he probably missed the opportunity of telling that to Sherlock.

But was it all lost?

John was deluded to think Sherlock and his interests lay with Irene Adler. He realised his mistake now. When he told Sherlock to text her it probably just set Sherlock's decision in stone.

That made Sherlock's decision even more justifiable.

It only took Sherlock going somewhere not even Mycroft could find, for John to realise what he'd done.

What Sherlock did with his disappearing act certainly hurt John, but if he listened, _really_ listened, he would have seen the signs sooner. Like John said to Sherlock, if Mary didn't tell him to save Sherlock, Sherlock would have been dead. Something the old John wouldn't do.

John thought it through, and he finally had a realisation that Sherlock had dropped him none so subtle hints about his feelings. Had John been in the right state of mind he would have noticed. All the perfunctory touches, the words, the worry and resignation in Sherlock's eyes as John rained a hail of hits on him and blamed Sherlock for Mary's death. Even then, Sherlock didn't give up. He fought. 

Sherlock's escapade was not a cry for help, as much as John wanted to write that off as one of Sherlock's shenanigans. It was a testament of how not in control Sherlock must have been, to let things come this far before he retreated to himself.

Gathering himself, John called Lestrade and asked for a favour. 

…

Listening to Sherlock say "I don't want to die" over and over again didn't help John in feeling less guilty. He knew Sherlock was aware of the risks. He could have very well died if his prediction wasn't fulfilled.

Sherlock was all alone with Smith, at Smith's mercy and utterly helpless. No amount of hand-to-hand combat could have helped Sherlock with a psychopath, the caliber of Culverton Smith.

The recording of the night with Smith was the final nail to the coffin.

John saw that underneath it all, Sherlock didn't want to die, despite his previous suicidal tendencies, and what happened on the roof at St. Bart's.

"He turned out to be a good one, after all." Lestrade's voice broke the train of thought John had on a loop.

"I'm sorry?"

"Sherlock."

"Oh. Yeah." John cleared his throat. "Yes, he did."

"Hope you found what you were looking for."

"I'm not sure Greg. Not sure of anything these days."

They were interrupted by loud voices in the hallway before Sally Donovan entered Lestrade's office. She looked surprised to see John. She looked crossly at John, like he did her wrong.

"Where's your shadow?"

John didn't dignify her with an answer. Instead he turned to Lestrade and thanked him for the help.

"See you around, John." Lestrade called out after him.

"Yeah. See you around Greg."

"Say hello to the Reichenbach hero from me." Sally's sarcastic voice accompanied John in the hall.

John left paying her no mind.

…

John appreciated that Mrs. Hudson gave him the keys from the Aston Martin, because that way he was able to drive to a remote part in London and scream his lungs out at how unfair his life was.

What did he do wrong to deserve all the things that happened to him? Why couldn't Sherlock just… stay for once? Why did he fall in love with his best friend and then blame said friend for his wife's death?

There was no beating around the bush, was there? John pushed Sherlock away. He should be the one to bear his cross alone. He had no right to ask Sherlock to come back home.

The sudden and overwhelming need to find Sherlock came over John. Mycroft was not an option. Lestrade could help, if Sherlock didn't find a way to turn off the tracking on his mobile. There was something that was nagging at John. He felt like he had the answer, that it was close to reach.

"Damn it, Sherlock!" John yelled and hit the tyre of the Aston, hard. "God, if Mrs. Hudson finds out, she'd never let me live it down. Look at this, I am talking to myself. Are you happy with this Sherlock?"

John slumped against the driver's side door and exhaled. It was obvious that Sherlock planned to come back to London. Sherlock needed time, John was desperate and he couldn't, he wouldn't, let Sherlock disappear for another 2 years. He wasn't going to be deterred. He was going to find Sherlock, he was going to talk to him and then…. Then they'd go from there.

Whatever happened from now on, John didn't want to regret not taking a stand, and leaving Sherlock to his own devices in such trying times. John felt the need to protect Sherlock ever since he was drawn into the life of solving crime and blogging. The whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes swooped in and pulled John along for the ride. John wouldn't change anything (except the part where Sherlock 'died' that one time), but he had to admit to himself that even if nothing happened between them, he wouldn't give up.

John Watson wasn't ready to give up on Sherlock Holmes.

…

On the drive back to London, John tried to clear his mind from everything, except for the possible places where Sherlock could be hiding. He was obviously not in London, that would be too easy, he'd know John would find him immediately.

The next logical explanation would be somewhere other than London. From what little John knew about Sherlock's family, they had a house-, a whole _estate_ in Musgrave Court, but it had burned down over 30 years ago. John didn't have the slightest idea where the Holmeses other properties were, and he wasn't about to call and ask.

John would resort to calling Mycroft or Sherlock's parents only after he spent all his other resources.

John picked up his mobile and phoned Lestrade.

…

It should have felt like intruding on Sherlock's privacy, looking through his financial statements and real estate, if Sherlock owned anything than the things currently at 221B Baker Street, that is. Yet, privacy was one thing they both skirted around, had never set any boundaries for.

But, desperate times call for desperate measures, _right_?

John owed it to Sherlock to try his hardest. And somehow, deep inside, John felt like Sherlock knew exactly what John was going to do.

Suddenly, there was something that caught John's eye. Shortly before Sherlock's suicide, he'd bought a house in Switzerland.

Odd, John didn't know about the house. Was Sherlock's plan to move out of London altogether years ago? Did Sherlock wait for the right time?

So many questions swirled in John's brain until he saw the exact address of the house.

Everything else blurred as John zoomed in on the location.

Reichenbachtal.

"It can't be."

Sherlock was in Switzerland.

It didn't make any sense. It wasn't the logical choice. Yet Sherlock had always defied logic.

Without further ado, John reserved a train ticket to Bern. It was time to brush up on his German.

Into battle, then.

…

Sherlock poured himself tea, and slowly walked to the window pane. There was something calming about the sight of the waterfalls. Sherlock would wake up every day and go to the window, watching the sunrise and the Reichenbach Falls. John would be proud to see that Sherlock was getting regular bouts of sleep, although they were often restless.

It was the day Sherlock both dreaded and anticipated. Christmas morning, December 25th.

Just then a sleek black Jaguar arrived in front of the house, and parked next to Sherlock's rental. The person getting out of the car was exactly who Sherlock expected.

There would only be a minute until he climbed the stairs and…

He was there.

Sherlock stood ramrod straight as he felt a pair of eyes bore holes in his skull. Without turning around, Sherlock knew that there at the door, stood John.

"You know, usually when people don't want to be found, they do not leave clues or a paper trail."

"Circumstances and subconsciousness."

"Oh, you'd know a thing or two about that."

"Mhm. Possibly."

…

John didn't know what to feel. He hoped he'd find Sherlock, but at the same time he was cautious, because there was a slight possibility John wasn't right about Sherlock's whereabouts.

Now that he could clearly see Sherlock in front of him, all the anger and hurt dissipated. The only thing he felt was longing to make things right again.

"I see you've got a nice little cozy place here." John was careful with his comment. He could feel Sherlock's dramatic eye roll. "I'd say magical even."

"Always the romantic, John."

"I don't know anything different."

They stood in awkward silence until Sherlock spoke in his deep baritone voice.

"Are you afraid I'm going to stay here forever?" Sherlock spoke to John, still not looking at him.

Sherlock's beard was far more prominent now, and despite the form fitting clothes (except for the poor shirts' buttons that somehow always struggled), John could see Sherlock had lost more weight than the last time he laid eyes on him.

"No."

"Were you afraid of not being able to talk to me before I actually did it?"

Sherlock's question froze John on the spot.

"So, you are considering it, then."

"No." Sherlock then turned around and his piercing eyes landed on John's. "It was merely a deduction of how you might feel in case I was to part from London. Obviously, you are going to be sad, the first time proved useful to collect data on that matter. However, I don't want a repeat of that, and have no desire whatsoever to leave. At least not in this very moment. Ask me again in a few years. If I'm still a company you want by your side." Sherlock took a deep breath and exhaled.

John kept opening and closing his mouth in hopes for his words to cooperate, but he was left with a scrambled brain and wondering just what he got himself into this time.

He wanted Sherlock Holmes back in his life. He wanted Sherlock back home, at Baker Street, and somehow John knew it would be the hardest thing he'd ever do, to convince Sherlock in his honesty. Not that Sherlock ever had a reason to doubt John, but with recent events all bets were off.

You never knew with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock smiled. His smile although genuine, did not reach his eyes.

"Hello, Sherlock."

"Hello, John. I was waiting for you."

"Why am I not surprised?" John replied with a little bit of sarcasm and more fondness than what he planned on showing. But, this was Sherlock Holmes in front of him, and John was tired of hiding what he felt.

It was now or never.

…

Half an hour later, John was comfortably seated in a chair, sipping orange juice and eating a croissant that Sherlock ordered for him. Sherlock hadn't touched his, yet, but it came as no surprise to John. It was a clear sign that Sherlock was focused on something that required no food intake for the time being. It wasn't a case, so what could it be?

Could it be that Sherlock was ready to…?

First John wanted to state his own thoughts. He felt like he owed Sherlock at least that much.

"I should apologise." John cleared his throat. Sherlock faced the window and observed the snowfall.

"What for?" The unmovable form of Sherlock spoke, voice absent of any indication that he was present with his mind.

"For... for being angry with you. Ever since you came back, I- " John moved to stand next to Sherlock. "I was so angry and every time something was wrong with me or my life, I took it out on you. It wasn't fair."

"It's only understandable that you-"

John touched Sherlock's elbow and turned the detective to face him.

"I may not be as clever as you, Sherlock, but I am smart and I have a good memory. As I recall, you explained yourself perfectly well in your letter. I am aware I didn't let you speak, and for that I am truly sorry. I deeply regret not noticing that I wasn't the only one suffering, and I let you fall down again. I did not help you when I blamed you for Mary's death. You see there's something people are masters in doing: blaming someone else for their failures.

"Now, before you speak up and tell me I didn't fail, I know I didn't. But, right at that moment, the easiest thing was to blame you Sherlock. I should have known the moment you didn't fight me on anything I said to you, how wrong it was to let it stay that way."

Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat and looked at John with an expression akin to the one he had in his eyes after Mary died.

"I didn't give you the chance to talk to me. Really talk. You were clearly distressed and you tried multiple times to speak to me, but I denied that to you. I know I am asking too much with this. I know you understand, but will you let me explain? Will you let me redeem myself? I don't want you to give me that chance just because you understand. I want you to agree or disagree with this on your own, without feeling the need to appease me, because that's not how I want this to turn out.

"You are far too important to me, Sherlock, and I believe that I missed a hell of a lot of opportunities to show you that lately. I want a do-over, but only if you want one, too."

John noticed he still had his palm against Sherlock's elbow and it felt oddly warm. Where Sherlock would have shied away from the physical touch years ago, now he let it happen.

"Am I to speak now, John?" Sherlock's trademark smirk, that meant trouble while on cases, was firmly set on his face. John smiled, knowing it was meant only for him.

"Yes, you can."

"Well thank you for allowing me that. Now, where were we? Ah, the chance to redeem yourself... I am not exactly the person that's best at communication, John. It's why I wrote the letter in the first place. It takes a certain amount of courage for me to talk to people and when it involves sentiment, it's highly likely for me to experience trouble talking and I'd end up saying something that won't be quite appropriate with the situation at hand.

"But you asked, kindly, and I want you to know that I am not going to deny or do anything to stop you, John Watson from saying your mind. Be my guest, I will allow it."

With that, Sherlock sat down on the leather sofa, facing both the window and the fireplace. John mirrored Sherlock's posture, sitting on a chair similar to his at Baker Street.

"I know you said your piece of mind on why you didn't want to stay at Baker Street, at least for the moment, but I need to know. Before I continue with this, I need to know, Sherlock, why do you think leaving is always the best option in everything?"

"It beats having to explain my reasoning to people about why certain things transpired and the fear of…" Sherlock trailed off and stopped.

John gave him time. Sherlock wasn't the best at communicating with people. Sometimes he needed time to gather his thoughts and align his words perfectly. John loved to watch Sherlock think. All the little ticks and the frowny faces were worth it when the 'a-ha!' moment happened. John missed those times fiercely, aware he did some of the pushing away lately.

As much as his therapist gave him grief about avoiding human contact, and depression when one lost a person they were close with, someone they deeply loved, no matter if it was a spouse or someone else, John had to admit she was right. John had blamed Sherlock for Mary's death. He'd alienated himself from his best friend, the only constant in his life, (save for the two years when Sherlock was 'dead') but even then, Sherlock was ever present. Sherlock was important to John as much as air. Then, Mary had died and John… John simply couldn't deal with it.

The hurt in Sherlock's eyes when John had beat him was enough to bring John to the reality of their situation. John never wanted to see such anguish and resignation in Sherlock's eyes again.

"I don't want people to dissect my thoughts on why I made a certain decision, about a thing that should not concern them in the first place. I don't want to be dependent on telling someone my plans, just for the thought of doing simply that. Revealing. Giving bits and pieces to-"

Sherlock trained his focused look on John, and it seemed like he'd just stopped himself from saying anything too revealing.

"I want to be the one to decide whom to tell, and how much they get to know."

John understood Sherlock perfectly, but still, it nagged at him.

"But, why? Why wouldn't you-?" John stopped himself, already knowing the answer.

The fear of rejection.

Reveal too much, let the wrong word or message slip, and you are fucked.

_We don't do this, talk about our feelings. He is Sherlock and I am John._

"You looked like you didn't want to have any connections with me after I returned. You made sure I understood that."

"Yes. That was before I realised that life is too short to hold a grudge. For two years I battled my demons, Sherlock. I tried to come to terms with the fact that my best friend died. I was desperate. A part of me died when you jumped off of St. Bart's roof. I just wanted to feel again. To feel alive."

"Mary." Sherlock said her name devoid of emotion. It wasn't a question.

"Mary, yes. But we can both face the fact that she wasn't you. No one can be you, Sherlock. You are you. And I know now that I should have said all of this before we came to this point, but it is what it is."

Sherlock, fingers interlocked under his chin, nodded in assent.

"I appreciate you telling me everything. I shouldn't have given up so easily. You deserved better. You deserve better, Sherlock. All I did was blame you for everything that happened to me. Admittedly you were guilty for some of it, but what happened after the fall, that's on me."

Sherlock made an attempt to speak, but closed his mouth and stared in space. John recognised the look as the one Sherlock had on when he'd been asked to be John's best man.

"Look, it's understandable that you moved on. That's what people do. They move on. I am the one to blame. I expected you to, I don't know, wait for me to come back."

It was striking how Sherlock went from one moment in the next like it took no effort at all to discuss all of their problems. To the untrained eye it would seem like Sherlock didn't care and it was easy for him to transition, but to John it was obvious, clear as day. Sherlock was opening up in the best way he could without slicing his heart open for everyone to see.

That was only reserved for John and only when Sherlock was ready.

"I expected you to not give up on me just because I jumped off of that roof. I then came to understand it was foolish of me to hope that you wouldn't try to leave your past behind. Leave me behind. I tried to cope. It didn't go well for either of us. Ultimately, everyone in my life has given up. I needed you not to."

"I never gave up on you Sherlock. I just merely came to terms with my priorities after your death. There was no longer my flatmate, my best friend, the madman. There was a hollow, empty void inside my soul. I didn't realize that until I saw you for the first time in two years."

"And I dealt with it poorly." Sherlock stated and it was confession enough for John.

"We both did. For as much as it was you who was at fault, I was, too."

"Where do we go from here, John?"

To anyone on the outside it may seem like Sherlock was asking just an ordinary question. Maybe not certain with the direction things should take, but to John, Sherlock's question meant that for once, he wanted to give up control, let John decide, take the reins, steer the way to where they were going from now on.

There was no doubt in John's heart or mind that he'd gladly take the place behind the wheel, and be the one Sherlock wanted him to be.

In the end it was always just the two of them. There was no Sherlock Holmes without John Watson and no John Watson without Sherlock Holmes.

"We go home. As much as I like this scenery-" John motioned to the window, to the wonderful Reichenbach Falls, "- home is Baker Street. You belong there. I belong there. Side by side."

It was as far as John was willing to go in showing his feelings. It would be Sherlock's decision now, whether he'd want to pursue something more. Something that involved them as more than just best friends.

As predicted, Sherlock looked surprised, again, that someone chose him, that someone decided, willingly, to stay in his company.

John felt bold and decided to challenge Sherlock. Now that all was said, there was one more thing left.

"Do you feel like making a deduction, Sherlock?" John was surprised that his voice didn't waver.

He was practically bursting at the seams, and it was killing him to remain silent, but John wanted Sherlock to deduce, to discover and make a statement.

The ball was in Sherlock's court.

"What, pray-tell is that you want me to deduce, John?"

Amusement could be heard in Sherlock's voice, and there was the knowing shark like grin that practically sang 'I've solved the case with just one look'.

John's matching smirk threatened to split his face in half.

_The game is on._

...

It took only a few moments for Sherlock to realize what John wanted him to deduce. Thinking of it displayed so openly, for Sherlock to see, to drink in.

_It was obvious._

"How did I not see it before? It was right there under my nose. Yet, you- you said, you made a point of- John?"

"Yes. I admit it was a mistake on my part. One I deeply regret, ever since your supposed death."

"When did you know?"

"Know what?"

John looked both eager and curious, but there was an underlying feeling only Sherlock could see and Sherlock just _knew_ , John being daft was only a ploy to get him going.

_Deduce._

_The game is on, solve it!_

_Blood pumping through your veins..._

_The high speed chase, the adrenaline_.

Life with Sherlock Holmes was always dangerous, yet John was there for most of it. He didn't have to, certainly could have just turned around and started a new life without Sherlock in it, but he never did.

_Okay, then, John. I'll guess._

"Since when do you... love me?"

John looked positively giddy, even if Sherlock did say it so himself. The contrast between this John and the one arriving at his house earlier that day was palpable, but nothing short of a miracle. Sherlock expected fireworks to go off, and not in a positive way.

Mycroft once told Sherlock that Doctor Watson would be the making or breaking of Sherlock and at the time, he hadn't understood the meaning. Looking at it now from this point of view, Sherlock realised Mycroft was right, and that the answer was right in front of him the whole time.

Clear as day, or whatever people said to placate themselves that they could see something clear. There was nothing 'clear', only an epiphany, long overdue in Sherlock's case.

Sherlock did not expect John to come to Switzerland to take him home. He knew that this retreat could be very well the thing that would finally make the wedge between them even larger. He should have known better.

It was right there. The signs were there.

"Of course! Obviously. It was there."

"Yeah."

"I see now."

"What do you see, Sherlock?" John's voice was optimistically cautious, despite all of the confidence, or whatever it was, that made John act boldly.

"You are in love with me."

It wasn't a question. John already knew about Sherlock. Sherlock wrote it to him in the letter. Poured his heart out on the crisp paper, like the average idiotic fools did. Boring. Sherlock had to admit it did help him a little, though.

Worst case scenario, John was still not reciprocating, and this was just a conjuring.

"It's not."

John's voice brought Sherlock back to the present. Reichenbachfälle, near Meiringen, Switzerland. Warm glow of the fireplace, darkness falling outside. The never ending cascade of water over stones, beating on them, wearing them down with the weather in a calming rhythm.

_John._

_The feeling of home._

_Love._

_Human._

"I said that out loud, didn't I?"

"Mmm. You often do that when you think people do not notice. I do."

"You are not most people, John Watson."

John smiled and Sherlock counted that as a win.

"The closest to a compliment I could go with. Still learning these feelings."

John was giggling now, and that mushy part inside Sherlock told him that it was good. Sherlock made John giggle. Laugh. Just like in the old times.

"And to answer your question-statement, yes, I'm in love with you. Have been for quite some time, Sherlock. It only took me reading your letter to realise what it was exactly-"

"To put a name to it." Sherlock finished off John's sentence. "I pegged you as a person not going for labels, but if we take into regard the almost, well, not almost, but utterly blatant way in which you've stated, more than once, that you are not gay, and the repeated dates with women that didn't suit you, at all. Do not look at me like that, John, you bloody know I'm right. It wasn't just my jealousy, but you are so obvious when you want to repress something. You get edgy and agitated, you yell at me and quite possibly driven by the primary need of taking care, you are fussing over me like an overbearing mother hen.

"That is the milder version of what I actually wanted to say, but I'll spare you the details. You, John Watson, have said on more than one occasion that you are not gay, and that you are not interested in me. Not that you ever explicitly stated you were attracted or interested in any or other male person in London, but the way you were desperate to find a woman suitable for you to date and the traits she was supposed to possess... well they give me my answer and practically your confession."

"I'm sorry, what traits?"

"Well the fact you sought tall women, seemingly smart, with a slender frame and obvious penchant for the quirky and possibly with a mix of blue and green eyes... perhaps I should mention the rare exception of seeking someone that wasn't as pale as a ghost."

John was stunned in place, gaping at Sherlock.

"My conclusion would be and is: you were looking for substitutes. Your subject of interest was a man, someone you grew quite close to, and that was extremely jealous around your dates. Trying his damndest to condemn said dates to eternal doom. Most times it worked, if only to see that look on your face when you were angry with him. 

"I thought I could stand a chance. I was ready to... confess myself. To you. You know I'm not the one to go for it, but I could see a change in me that was practically bursting at the seams. Then Moriarty happened, and I lost my chance.

"By the time I was back in London, you'd found a woman. You'd fallen in love with a woman. One that was not your type. Polar opposite of what you looked for in a companion, and quite possibly the only relationship I hadn't managed to prevent from happening. Mary. That's when I realised I had lost you."

Sherlock took a deep breath and the yellowish embers of the fire cast an otherworldly hue over his features.

"But how could I lose someone I never had? How could I claim the right over you?"

John came closer to Sherlock then, all of his defenses down, his walls completely crumbled. John wore all of his feelings like a second skin. He felt more naked than with his clothes off.

"I was afraid. Afraid of the labels, of what people would think, afraid of living in the shadow of the one, great Sherlock Holmes. But I have loved you, and God help me, I still love you. For so long. And I wish I was braver. I wish I didn't go down that path with Mary. I have so many regrets. Certainly not my daughter, but you get the gist of it. Do not think for one second one of them is loving you, Sherlock Holmes. I could never regret loving you.

"I'm sorry it took me your letter and a lifetime of reflection to finally understand what it was that I was feeling. You are like a magnet, Sherlock. It's impossible to stay away from you."

Sherlock was openly staring at John in disbelief, as if John finally admitting and professing his undying love for Sherlock was a complete and utter surprise. Which it probably was.

"You are not an easy man to love, Sherlock."

John paused briefly and felt bad when he saw the moment Sherlock's face fell. It was a rare display of emotions.

Just then, John took a step towards the edge of the precipice. It was now or never. It was important for Sherlock to look at him for the next part.

Sherlock looked up tentatively when he felt John's clammy left palm on his face.

"You may not be easy to love, but when have I ever gone for easy? What's the point of easy when I have Sherlock Holmes in my life? Easy is boring."

There was something sounding suspiciously like a wet chuckle coming from Sherlock before John took one last step.

Tilting Sherlock's face slightly, to accommodate the height difference, John slotted his lips with Sherlock's.

…

"There is something I never allowed myself to voice it out loud." Sherlock moved to the fireplace, seeking warmth he knew he only associated with John. He felt John's eyes on him.

"What's that?" John inquired after a few moments.

"That you are one of the best people in my life, as meaningless as it is to others. You were always there for me, kept me sane. You actually helped me stay sober longer than I'd ever been. That is, before I relapsed while chasing Moriarty."

Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat. Now was not the time to cry.

"You are very clever and observant John. Obviously you are not me. You are you, and no matter how I try to figure it out, to deduce it, it always eludes me... you are an enigma John Watson. One I was able to crack, but changed the level of encryption in the wake of not so recent events, that I was not able to decode so easily. I want to try, though, for my sake, and yours. If you are willing to let me in, again. Help me out.

"I never told you any of this, and why would I? I assumed you knew. You understood me like no one else, yet... I want to remedy that. I want to tell you all this and more. But, I need to know it's not just me who is willing to put everything on the table. Selfish, I know, but no more games, John. It's getting serious right here and right now."

"I... I should have seen the signs. I should have made my own deduction. You get high on solving cases, and when you have an emotional response to a certain situation-" John chuckled without mirth and shook his head. "When you experience sentiment, however faulty that bloody thing is, you bury yourself in work. I used to think it was just you, Sherlock, but I guess I was blind to some of the things myself."

John moved to what he supposed was the kitchen, and found a lukewarm teapot.

"I'm that damn predictable. Figures."

John could hear Sherlock's smirk, but by the time he returned with the two mugs, Sherlock's face was all schooled features, betraying nothing.

"You solve even the most boring cases, because you can't admit it to yourself that they are your escape. Most people travel or write a book, or dunno, they do something, but as we've established, you are not most people. You solve crimes. The thrill of a good murder and the chase, it gives you a satisfaction, fulfilment, a purpose. When you are bored and have nothing to do with yourself, you go to your Mind Palace.

"For a long time I didn't see it. You do all of this to escape your mind. Your surroundings. The things you try to keep the way you want them. Like it or not, you want to be in control, Sherlock. Being in control gives you the feeling of safety, you are not under threat, and you are certainly not lost."

Sherlock looked at John, not giving anything up for debate, John knew he was right, he read that in Sherlock's letter.

Read between the lines. Subtext.

His life with Sherlock Holmes in a nutshell.

"Would it make any difference if I admit to anything you just said?" Sherlock suddenly asked and John was met with the piercing gaze of the blue-green-gold orbs that gave way to no emotions, yet all of them at once. 

"No. It won't. At least for me. I know I'm right, but admitting to it, I don't know how it will affect you, Sherlock. Saying things out loud... it has a different, final ring to it. Like you carve something and you set it in stone. It leaves a dent. And even though it changes with time the dent still remains."

"I prided myself with carefully choosing my words regarding to what I wrote to you. I didn't want to give up too much, but I didn't realize my Boswell could read my mind through a couple of written lines."

"More like a couple of pages, multiplied by... I don't know, I didn't keep count."

John was fibbing. John counted the exact number of pages Sherlock left written in the neat block writing he found comfort in.

"You are something else, John Watson. And yes, to your deduction. I admit. Blame me for not wanting to sound... sappy."

That earned an honest chuckle from John.

"That's the thing Sherlock. It's okay to be a sap."

"Okay. Now, kiss me."

"Bossy."

Sherlock pouted and it shouldn't be that adorable on a grown ass man nearing his 40s, but John found he was utterly and irrevocably smitten, so he didn't care at all.

"Alright then, Sherlock. I'm gonna kiss you."

…

John found that kissing Sherlock was quickly becoming his most favorite thing, and wondered why the hell it took him so long to do this. He was a complete idiot.

Sherlock's lips were soft and pliant underneath his, and Sherlock kissed with fervor, much as he solved cases. All in. John enjoyed how Sherlock made kissing an experiment, too.

Right now, Sherlock was trying to test how sensitive John was on the junction between his throat and neck.

John sighed and went limp in Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock moved back to John's lips.

"What's the verdict then?" John managed to ask after he extracted his already kiss bruised lips off of Sherlock's sinful mouth.

"Very satisfying. I'd even go as far as saying that your lips were made to fit with mine."

Something raw and primal _growled_ inside John, and the heat coursing through his body turned into molten lava. A part of John's brain told him they should move slower. The other, more persistent part, told John that what was currently happening between them was long delayed.

"Now, who is the romantic, Sherlock."

"Oh, do shut up, Watson."

John took a good, long look at Sherlock. The man John loved with the impeccable curls, and so ridiculously tall that John had to pull him down for a kiss. His pale skin dotted with freckles, the blush on his cheeks stark against it.

Sherlock's tight fitted shirt that was struggling against his chest. Oh the poor struggling shirts.

John wanted to relieve them from duty.

John placed his hands on top of Sherlock's shoulders, smoothed them over his arms until he reached those talented violinist's hands, and intertwined their fingers. 

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

"Likewise, Watson."

Sherlock was positively ruined with his red cheeks, and pink, kiss swollen lips. He released small gasps as John rove his hands all over Sherlock's body, starting to unbutton Sherlock's shirt.

All of a sudden, John couldn't stand the task and ripped the shirt all the way off.

Sherlock looked mildly offended but it took one lust-filled look from John and he agreed with John's assessment of needing to remove it.

Sherlock's hands came up against John's chest and he slowly removed the red plaid cardigan John wore.

Sherlock moved to kiss John and John realised that it was the first time Sherlock initiated a kiss. John was overwhelmed with how much love he felt for this gorgeous, wonderful, extraordinary man.

"Would you let me make love to you, Sherlock?" John whispered to the silence of the room.

"Yes, John."

…

John made good on his promise. He made slow and sweet love to Sherlock, took him apart and put him back together.

Sherlock reciprocated, and for every movement John made, Sherlock met him in the middle. They came together in more ways than one. Nothing seemed to be of importance to them at this blessedly problem-free morning.

Sherlock was sprawled on top of John like a starfish, snoring lightly with John stuck under his body, warm and safe.

Sherlock stirred the second he felt the tiniest movement come from John.

"Morning."

"Good morning. Sleep well?"

"Mhm." Sherlock was still sleepy and moved to burrow his head in John's neck.

"God, I'm in love with an oversized cat."

Sherlock started purring on purpose.

"Brat."

"You love me."

"God help me, I do."

After a few more minutes of lounging in bed, Sherlock stirred and his eyes came to level with John's.

"What's the plan now?" Sherlock asked, and John recognised it for what it was. Sherlock was asking him for their life beyond Reichenbach Falls.

"Well, I retract my previous offer to take you back home to Baker Street at once. It's Christmas time and we should enjoy the holiday properly." John looked none-so-subtly down between them. "Rosie is with Mrs. Hudson and Molly, they'll call in case I'm needed. But the most important thing of all is, I'm yours and it's time for you to be my priority for once.

"God knows I've been a lousy parent ever since Mary died. I want to do the best I can, but there's so many things that… I need time. I need time to enjoy this, us, and recharge. We can figure out life back home when the time comes."

Sherlock hummed and he rested a hand on John's cheek. The intense look was back in his eyes, but Sherlock was far more relaxed today and John counted that as a win.

"Do you want to stay here with me a little longer, John Watson?"

"Absolutely."

"Then, it's done. We'll spend time here, for as long as it takes. Then we figure out, all of this, on our own… and together."

"Together. As long as it takes."

"I can work with that."

"Excellent. Breakfast?"

"Mmm, it's right in front of me." Sherlock grinned as he pounced on John.

John had never flushed quite like this before.

In the distance, the Reichenbach Falls pelted on.

**This is the banner edit without words:**

**And this is the moodboard:**

**Author's Note:**

> Reichenbachfälle is Reichenbach Falls on German 
> 
> Thoughts?


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